Defeat, 1588
by AnotherConstellationDies.x
Summary: It was early August, and the sun was setting, the sky a fiery orange. Dark grey clouds were dotted here and there, like fragments of ship scattered across a beach.


**Hiii so here I am again. Yeah so I wrote this for my girlfriend's birthday, way back in May, and I never got around to publishing it. But that changes here! Woo. **

* * *

><p>It was early August, and the sun was setting, the sky a fiery orange. Dark grey clouds were dotted here and there, like fragments of ship scattered across a beach. A warm wind blew, and the world was very peaceful, like the calm just after a storm.<p>

And yet, as the Spaniard strode across the landscape, he was anything but calm. Under his breath, he was whispering the foulest of curses, the words slipping from him like venom from a cobra.

He hurt all over, his head, his back, his shoulders, all caused from being thrown around the ship as the sea roiled beneath him, and the wind howled around his ears. The pain from the gash in his leg had dulled to a dim ache, though the wound on his side was the one causing him the most trouble. It had started to bleed again, through his bandages, and through all his clothes to his coat, though the redness of it disguised any blood anyway. It's why he had chosen this colour in the first place. So he wouldn't return home covered in the blood of his enemies too blatantly.

That had been the plan.

But things don't always go to plan, of course.

The sun was very nearly gone by the time he reached his house, standing in the shadows of the mountains. He wrenched open the door, stepping into the cool tiled room, discarding that godforsaken axe into the darkness of the other side of the room.

For a moment he didn't know what he was meant to do now, didn't know what he was meant to do with himself. He just listened to his shaky breathing, barely registering that his hands were shaking.

And suddenly, he heard a noise from within the house. A clinking of pot, perhaps, though he wasn't entirely sure. He tensed, listening again, and the noise sounded again.

He strode over to pick up his axe, ready to take on this intruder. "Who's there?" He asked wandering slowly through the expansive house. "I warn you, I am in no damn mood to deal with this right now." There was no response, but that clinking noise sounded again. He growled slightly. "Show yourself!" He shouted, being too much in a rage to calm down and figure out which room the noise was coming from. "I have just lost mi Grande y Felicísima Armada to that bastardo inglés, don't think I won't fucking decapitate you!" There was such anger injected into his words, that he even scared himself a bit.

He paused at the bottom of the stairs, still grasping his axe tightly. He looked around, trying to listen, but there were no more sounds. And suddenly, a pair of arms wound around his waist. He tensed, immediately moving backwards to slam the intruder against the wall, keeping him secured there between the wall and his own back. Through the dark, he turned his head, snarling, to glare at this intruder, about to dish out some violence on whoever this was, and suddenly there was a low chuckle.

"So quick to anger, Antoine."

Antonio's eyes widened, his mouth forming a little 'o'. He stepped away, freeing Francis from between himself and the wall.

"Francis?" He asked, as if he was hallucinating.

"Oui." Francis replied, eyes sparkling, as if he was doing something he shouldn't. "I've been waiting for you to return~" He stepped forwards, running a hand through Antonio's dark, dirty hair.

Antonio stared back at him, feeling the anger inside himself dissipate. He didn't even bother asking how Francis got in, he didn't care, and frankly he was incredibly glad that he was here. Francis took the axe from him, propping it up against the wall. He looked at Antonio, as if waiting for him to speak. Antonio opened his mouth, but no words came. Eventually he sighed, and looked down at his feet.

"We lost everything." He said softly. "Mi Grande y Felicísima Armada. Gone."

Francis sighed. "Ah, mon cher, I am sorry." He paused, and there was silence between them. "But it will be alright, oui?"

Antonio tried to nod, but he didn't know if that had worked. "Si." He murmured instead, and Francis ran his hand through his hair instead.

"Come on." He took hold of Antonio's hand, pulling him through into the kitchen. "You must be très faim." Antonio let himself be pulled along, and took in the sight of the table covered in a variety of things; grapes, olives, bread, cheese, and a bottle of wine with two glasses beside it, as if Francis had been expecting him.

That almost made Antonio smile; he hadn't told Francis when he'd be back, Francis had just pre-empted with incredible accuracy.

And so they ate, and made small talk over the candlelight, and as Antonio drank his wine he could feel Francis' eye on him. Francis looked to him incredibly handsome in the candlelight, his light blue eyes sparkling slightly, although that might just have been the alcohol in Antonio's wine starting to work, Antonio wasn't sure.

However, the rather romantic atmosphere that had appeared between them was suddenly shattered, when Francis chanced to look down and see the blood seeping through Antonio's waistcoat. "You're injured!" He said, eyes widening. Antonio looked down to see the blood, as if he had forgotten it was there.

"Ah, si, it would appear so."

Silence descended again, and Francis rose from his chair, wandering round to Antonio, to look down at him with concern on his features. "We have to treat those, tu sait."

Antonio sighed and nodded, unwilling to leave the food and the warmth and the atmosphere of the room. After having retrieved some clean bandages from somewhere, Francis led him outside, because out there it was easier, as there was a stream coming down from the mountains that ran through Antonio's property.

Francis sat Antonio down by the stream, sparing no time in stripping off his waistcoat, undoing the ties of his shirt, pulling it off. Antonio shivered slightly as the chill night air hit his bare chest, but he was concentrating more on the gash on his side. Francis examined it, sucking in a breath, not quite a gasp. He gently wet a cloth, washing the wound, ever aware of causing Antonio more pain.

"I can do this myself, you know." Antonio murmured, watching him.

"I know." Francis replied, voice soft. "But I want to help."

Antonio was about to reply, thought better of it, and kept quiet. Eventually, with the wound washed and clean bandages wrapped around his waist, Francis looked up and smiled at him. "Fini." He said, leaning to wash his hands in the stream.

"Merci." Antonio said in an exaggerated French accent, and Francis laughed, standing up, offering Antonio a hand to do the same. With the both of them now standing, Antonio finally managed a smile, and leaned in to press a kiss to Francis' lips. Before he could pull back again, Francis' arms had gone gingerly around his waist (not wanting to hurt him further), his head tilting slightly to deepen the kiss.

Antonio huffed a laugh, and wound his fingers into Francis' hair.

Eventually, they found themselves back inside, in Antonio's bedroom, Francis' golden hair splayed out on the pillow, Antonio's green eyes shining, the candles on the kitchen table long burned out.


End file.
